


If the Fates Allow

by thebiwholived



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, brief mentions of children having been killed, but honestly we all know trauma is my lifeblood lol, in which my kids get help for the holidays, it's all I want, look I know it's Christmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 00:07:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21787972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebiwholived/pseuds/thebiwholived
Summary: Christmas 2002. A snapshot of the Potters and the changes they meet, nearly five years after the war.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 15
Kudos: 160





	If the Fates Allow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eleyezeeaye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eleyezeeaye/gifts).



> My contribution to the 2019 Incognito Elf exchange over on the Harry/Ginny discord. Written for Liza, who, like me, wants to see these characters healing from their roles as children of war. I knew we had been matched up on purpose for this exchange when I saw she wrote "nothing TOO fluffy" on the list of preferences. ;)
> 
> A massive thank you to [unfinishedduet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unfinishedduet) and [desertsongs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/desertsongs) for looking this over before I posted and convincing me that this result of a three-day writing marathon and excessive sleep deprivation was in fact good and not total crap.
> 
> Merry Christmas! <3

Ginny turns the collar of her coat up against the sharp chill of the wind and trots down the office steps towards the car parked along the pavement. She can see Harry in the driver’s seat, waiting patiently as ever, fiddling a bit with the radio. Sometimes she wonders if he ever really goes anywhere after he drops her off, or if he just sits there for an hour in some semblance of keeping her company. He spots her then and grins, sitting up a little straighter, and Ginny marvels that, nearly six years on, his tiny little gestures of happiness to see her still manage to make her gut flutter a bit.  
  
She slides gratefully into the blessed warmth of the car, and Harry shifts into gear. “Welcome back.”  
  
“Thanks,” she smiles, undoing the top few buttons on her coat.  
  
Harry used to ask her ‘How was it today?’ but they’ve both learned that she prefers to sit in quiet for a while, rearranging her brain, adjusting. She’ll tell him later, if she feels like talking about it. Instead, he simply gives her knee a brief squeeze and lets her pick the station on the radio.  
  
They pull out into traffic, heading for home. Occasionally, they might stop for a coffee along the way, but Harry somehow already knows she isn’t feeling up to it today, and he keeps driving. At first, she Apparated home after these…well, Ron calls them “head shrink visits.” But she had found that was too jarring, too sudden, and though she didn’t quite know why, it made everything more difficult. The idea of a car had seized her and not let go, and the very next day she and Harry had gone to pick one out. It was a nice change, she had thought, being able to just…buy things. One of the many perks of being with Harry. Not, of course, that her own salary from the League is anything to sneeze at, but it didn’t hurt to have a husband who was the heir to multiple fortunes of gold stashed away underneath the streets of London. Though admittedly it’s taken her a long while to get used to having money to spend. And to letting Harry spend it on her.  
  
Harry, of course, as with anything involving quick reaction and body-eye coordination, had turned out to be a natural at driving and aced his test with little effort. Ginny is a little more hesitant to try (she reckons her mum must have rubbed off on her a bit when it comes to cars), but she isn’t about to be outdone, and Harry has agreed to give her lessons after Christmas.  
  
As it is, he doesn’t have much free time at the moment, not with the case he was currently working at the department.  
  
As soon as they get home, Ginny kicks off her boots and shrugs her coat off her shoulders. Harry helps her out of it and hangs it on the hook for her. With anyone else, Ginny might get offended at things like that, but she knows full well Harry isn’t going for chivalrous or any of that nonsense.  
  
He just likes taking care of her, any way he can.  
  
“I’m going to take a shower,” she says quietly, running a hand down his side as he hangs up his own jacket.  
  
“Okay,” he murmurs. His arm goes around her back and he kisses her temple. “I’ll be here.”  
  
The warm water feels like a dream, and she stands under it a long time, trying to let her muscles relax. A few tears bubble up to the surface again, and she lets them out, allowing the memories she doesn’t want to see rise up and pass through instead of batting them away. Like she’s been counselled. She cries a little harder, and though it feels a bit like the bad sort of giving in, she doesn’t seem to weigh as much when it’s over and she supposes morosely that it really is worth it in the end, exhausting as it is.  
  
She briefly towels off her hair but finds she doesn’t have the energy for the rest of her, and goes out into the bedroom, dripping, to look for some clean clothes. A steaming cup of tea is waiting for her on the bedside table, and though she knows it’s silly, she feels like crying again. She digs out a jumper and a pair of Harry’s pyjama bottoms, slips them on and sits down on the bed, taking the hot cup between her hands. She breathes in the steam and listens to the distant sounds of Harry down in the kitchen, going about making dinner, and is endlessly grateful that she doesn’t have to go far at all to remind herself how very lucky she is to be alive.

* * *

She lies awake that night, unable to sleep.

The tremors had started up again. The ones the healer says are nothing to worry about, and she guesses he’s probably right. They happen a lot less often these days, anyway, and usually only when she is particularly stressed. Like right after her ‘head shrink visits.’ They’re…what was it called?... _psychosomatic,_ she’s been told. An echo of that horrible, _horrible_ year, and the methods the Carrows had chosen to use as discipline...which, Ginny scoffs, reprimanding herself, they hadn’t even mentioned in their session today. Of course they hadn’t, her doctor is a Muggle after all. So she can’t understand why she should be so shaken up like this. But everything stemmed from that one year, didn’t it?  
  
In any case, the only thing that matters at the moment is that it’s damn well keeping her up. She’s sitting in the arm chair in the corner of their bedroom – she hadn’t wanted her restlessness and trembling to wake Harry. Her arms are wrapped as tight as she can possibly hold them around her knees. Which is probably the opposite of helpful. She knows she should try to relax when it happens, but her anger at her own body for betraying her like this keeps her limbs locked and tense.  
  
She aches to wake Harry up, to feel his arms around her instead of her own – she knows he would prefer it that way, too, but she can’t bring herself to disturb any solid sleep he gets. His trouble getting a full night’s rest had never really abated after the war, and she hates seeing him exhausted. Harry, bless him, blinks awake on the bed as though he has heard her thoughts. He always had been a light sleeper.  
  
It takes him less than the space of a second, as always, to assess the room. The fact that she is not in their bed, that she is tucked away in the corner, alone and shaking.  
  
He half-rises up on his side, his arms opening. His hair is sleep-mussed, but his eyes are perfectly alert. “C’mere,” he tells her, his voice graveled and low.  
  
Her rigid limbs release themselves from around each other as though they had only been waiting to hear his voice, and she stands, not realising until that moment how very close she had been to tears. She staggers towards the bed, still shaking, and collapses onto it, burying her head in Harry’s chest as his arms close around her. Her fingers grasp his t-shirt and she inhales his wonderful, sleepy scent, a sob building in her throat.  
  
“It’s okay,” Harry says, his chin resting against the top of her head, fitting her perfectly. “We’re alive.”  
  
The sob inside of her gets out, and then another, and another, until a patch of Harry’s shirt is soaked through with her tears, and he holds her through it all, until long after she is done.  
  
After a while, she speaks, her voice thick and slightly muffled against Harry’s chest. “We talked about Fred today.”  
  
She can feel him swallow, and he gives a tiny hum. His arms tighten around her. They could say more, but there is no need, and they stay like that, wrapped up in each other, until Ginny’s shivers gradually subside and they both fall slowly back to sleep.

* * *

“Oy Potter, you got a grudge today?” Gwenog calls to Ginny as the team lands on the practice field and dismounts.  
  
Ginny wipes the sweaty hair from her forehead, shrugging a shoulder. She expects she might have unleashed a bit too much aggression with the Quaffle but Shipley had seemed to take the bruised side in stride with a good dose of humour. She waves to their Keeper a bit apologetically, but Shipley only waves merrily back, jogging off to the changing rooms with the trunk of practice balls under her arm.  
  
One of the reserve Chasers Ginny had bowled over during drills didn’t seem quite so forgiving. She hurries off the field, throwing a dirty look over her shoulder as she goes.  
  
“Sorry,” Ginny tells Gwenog as they make to follow the rest of the team.  
  
Gwenog holds up a hand in defence. “Hey, as long as you take it out against the Magpies on Saturday and not on us.”  
  
Ginny smirks, setting her broom over her shoulder. “Don’t worry, they’ve got it coming after last season. We’ll flatten them.”  
  
“We’d better,” says Gwenog portentously. “I won’t get another chance.”  
  
Ginny stops to look at her. “What do you mean?” she demands.  
  
Gwenog stops walking too, and looks a bit guilty. At least as guilty as her naturally haughty features can look. “Listen, don’t mention anything to the others, alright? I haven’t told anyone. But this is my last run, I’m retiring at the end of the season.”  
  
“Retiring?” Ginny questions, dumbfounded. She slowly resumes their walk to the changing rooms. “Already? But, why?”  
  
“I know I don’t look it,” she says good-naturedly, “but I’m nearing the high end of professional Quidditch-standard age….”  
  
“You’re only thirty-five,” Ginny protests.  
  
 _“Nearly_ thirty-five,” Gwenog corrects her with a wink. “Anyway, I’ve been captain of the Harpies for almost seven years now, that’s longer than most. And I don’t want to play for another team. Best to go out while I’m still at the top,” she says with a firm nod.  
  
“I suppose so,” Ginny says, though privately she isn’t sure she agrees. It was hard to imagine the team without Gwenog, and she didn’t think she would like to try. “What are you going to do, then?”  
  
“Dunno,” her captain answers, tapping her fingers along the wood of her broom. “Always thought Curse-Breaking sounded like a good bit of fun….”  
  
“I’ve got a brother who’s a Curse-Breaker,” Ginny says fondly. “Or used to be, anyway. It’s mostly desk work now he’s got a kid and a half. He absolutely loved it.”  
  
Gwenog hums in agreement. “Worth a try, then, I expect. We’ll see….”  
  
They enter the changing rooms and Ginny watches Gwenog move away, an odd sense of something impending blooming in her gut. Slowly, she strips off her muddied green robes and unlaces her boots, lost in thought.

* * *

She decides to pop over to the Burrow to see her mother before going home. Some children, Ginny thinks, might have to be nagged to visit their mums, but now that she is all grown up and moved out she has never missed hers more.  
  
And there is, perhaps, more than a little honesty in the fact that thinking about Fred so much in the past few days has made it twinge that much more.  
  
She stays for over an hour, chatting about little things while she helps her mum do the washing, and find the boxes of holiday decorations, and pick out a colour for Teddy’s Christmas jumper. Somehow, and Ginny isn’t quite sure how it happens, she gets pressed into letting her mother give her hair a trim (“It’s looking a bit worn at the ends, dear”) and it isn’t until her father comes home from work that she has the heart to depart. Gathering up her Quidditch bag and kissing her parents goodbye, Ginny finally steps out into the frost-toughened garden, weighed down with the dish of shepherd’s pie, plate of roast chicken, and a few new recipes to pass on to Harry, and turns sharply, Apparating home with a _crack!_  
  
She stumbles in the front door, juggling the stack of plates in her hand, and nearly topples over, catching herself quite skillfully at the last second. Letting out a self-satisfied breath, she drops her bag in the hall and goes to the kitchen to put the food in the refrigerator. She manages to squeeze the dishes onto an empty bit of shelf (she really ought to clean everything out one of these days) and stares at them for a moment before closing the door, sighing. Ginny suspects that her mum, like her, has noticed that Harry has been looking a little thinner since taking on this latest investigation.

Harry’s told her some of the details, and it makes her ill just thinking of it. A dangerous wizard on the loose in Suffolk and three dead children so far, murdered in such a horridly gruesome way that Ginny is quite sure she would never like to see the pictures and memories of the scenes Harry had described to her.  
  
But Harry had to see them. He had to look at them every day, knowing the man responsible was still out there, knowing it was up to him to catch the evil bastard.  
  
It would always be that way, she expected. It had been Harry’s destiny as a teenager, and it was his destiny now. There are days when Ginny wants to open her mouth and scream. To shout that it isn’t fair. To tell him to stop, to quit, to find a nice quiet job where he doesn’t have to take on other people’s pain and darkness, where she doesn’t have to worry that he is hurt, or missing, or dead.  
  
But that was Harry, and those days are few. It was who he was, after all. He could no more quit trying to stop all the evil in the world than she could stop breathing. He needed to help people, to try to make them whole, even if it tore _him_ to pieces. She wouldn’t change him, even if she could; it is part of what makes her love him so much.  
  
But she does wish she could put a stop to the part where he got torn up so terribly, terribly badly.  
  
Ginny had asked him several times if he wouldn’t consider going to talk to someone, like she did. Hell, it had been _his_ idea for _her_ to go in the first place, after she had got the tremors so bad she’d collapsed in the bathroom and knocked herself out cold on the edge of the sink. Hermione had told her Harry had been frightened nearly out of his mind that day, before she’d finally come to….  
  
Every time she brings it up, however, Harry manages to end the conversation before it ever gets started, citing reasons such as a Muggle doctor would never be able to properly help. Without knowledge of magic and potions and dark, evil curses, how would a doctor understand things like the occasion Harry had been forced to poison Dumbledore against his will the night he had been murdered? (Harry had only spoken about that precisely once, and very, very briefly, when he had been feeling particularly vulnerable after a dream, and it makes her wonder what else he is holding inside him that she doesn’t know about. That maybe even Ron and Hermione did not know about.)  
  
But Ginny knows that a Muggle doctor is not the real reason Harry was so resistant to the idea. There were wizard ones, after all. Far fewer, to be sure, but they existed. She was contemplating trying to find one herself – she had rather outrun all the topics she could safely discuss with the one she was seeing now.  
  
No, the problem, she reckons, was that Harry had a lot more deep, dark secret hurts than most people did, and he had learned a long time ago not to talk because there was no one who would listen anyway.  
  
He had been doing better since the days immediately following the war. She cringes, thinking of that awful period. But the intervening years had provided time and little else, and she knows he isn’t fully recovered, from any of it. Not by a long shot. She’s had to watch him go through fits and phases of struggle, much like was now, stretches of days and weeks much closer together than she would like, where he dropped weight and sat up sleepless and worked himself to death, avoiding family dinners at the Burrow because of all the noise and the light and the worried, watchful eyes.  
  
Once, Kingsley had even sent Harry home from work in the middle of the day, he was in such a bad state.

Harry had never, ever let that happen again.

Somehow, that worries her even more.

* * *

It turns out be one of those nights she had been thinking so fearfully of earlier. The kind of night when Harry doesn’t come home when she expects him to. Or an hour after that. Or an hour after that.  
  
She has learned by degrees, being married to an Auror, to be patient, supremely difficult as it is. She knows that if something was really wrong, Kingsley would send a message.  
  
Now, she has only to hope that she doesn’t receive such a message.  
  
She tries to distract herself in turn with the telly, cleaning out the fridge like she had promised herself she would do, and the book on her bedside table she’s been a quarter of the way through for over a month now. She toys with the idea of calling up Hermione or Luna and asking them to come over before remembering that Luna was in a rain forest in South America and that it was nearly midnight and Hermione was surely in bed.  
  
Eventually, she takes a cup of hot chocolate upstairs and lies under the covers on Harry’s side of the bed, counting the visible stars outside the window until she dozes off into a light, fitful sleep.

* * *

She wakes to hear the shower running and before she is even fully awake she is getting out of bed to go find him.  
  
The door to the bathroom is slightly ajar, light spilling out onto the floor, and she pushes it open, relief pounding in her chest.  
  
The first thing she notices is the pile of clothes on the floor, and the smears of blood on them. Her heart jumps into her throat and she looks up at Harry. He is standing under the stream of water, arms crossed and shoulders hunched, curled into himself. She knows exactly what she is looking at, and she shrugs out of her dressing gown and slips her knickers off, stepping into the shower behind him. She slides her arms gently around his middle, asking, just loud enough to be heard over the rush of water, “Are you hurt?”  
  
After a moment, he moves his fingers just slightly to intertwine with hers and shakes his head, his eyes squeezed shut, and she knows she can trust that. Once upon a time, she couldn’t have, but he has learned the hard way during their years together that lying to her about that sort of thing is not acceptable, and relief floods her again. The water is too hot, she can see his skin turning red, and she reaches around him to turn off the tap. He makes a small sound of protest, opening his eyes, but she tightens her fingers in his and coaxes him out of the bath. She hands him his towel, which he takes automatically and starts drying himself off while she gingerly gathers up the bloody clothes and places them into the dirty laundry, toweling dry her own hair one-handed.  
  
They are dried and silent and halfway to the bed when he gathers her up and kisses her fiercely, one hand in her hair, the other at her naked waist. She kisses him back just as forcefully, tugging at his shoulders, scared and aching and so, so relieved that he is here and alive with her.  
  
That night he fucks her hard, and she welcomes it.

She drags her short, bitten nails up his back, takes the skin of his neck between her teeth, and his breath hitches in his throat, a ragged, broken sound. If she is being honest, she knew he would need this as soon as she had found him in the shower with the water burning hot. She knows it can’t be healthy, and she nearly can’t stand it when she breaks and gives in to it, but she knows that, tonight, he won’t be able to let himself go without it, and, hating herself a bit, she bites down hard enough to bruise. She is rewarded with a tell-tale gasp in her ear and a sharp change of angle that sends her over the edge, Harry following close behind.  
  
When they are done, she drifts to sleep with her head on his chest, his arms wrapped so tightly around her she knows he is scared that he will dream tonight of losing her. She breathes him in and listens to the miraculous heart beating beneath her ear, praying that her touch will be enough to keep his dreams at bay.

* * *

Harry looks tired but a bit better in the morning, standing over the cooker barefoot in his joggers, turning bacon, and Ginny takes a second to admire the sight of him before stepping into the kitchen. She takes care to make a little noise, announcing her presence, as she sidles up behind him and wraps her arms around him, placing a kiss between his shoulder blades. She can feel his muscles relax underneath her.  
  
“Mm,” she sighs contentedly. “You smell like bacon.”  
  
Harry chuckles, the sound rumbling under Ginny’s cheek.  
  
“Knew you just kept me around for the cooking,” he accuses as he turns enough to put an arm around her, tugging her round to kiss her properly.  
  
“Well, and one other reason,” she says as she pulls away, giving him a lewd wink.  
  
He smirks, rolling his eyes slightly, and starts dividing the food onto two plates. “Sit your insatiable arse down, we’re not shagging before breakfast,” he commands.  
  
“That wasn’t your attitude last weekend, if I recall correctly,” she teases, taking her plate from him. She slides into a chair at the kitchen table, her bare thighs skittering slightly as she pulls her knees up to sit cross-legged. She watches Harry pull two mugs out of the cupboard and pour each of them a cup of coffee.  
  
“Yeah, well, last weekend I didn’t have to go into work an hour early,” he informs her wearily over his shoulder. He drops two spoons of sugar into her coffee and stirs it gently, leaving his own black, and joins her at the table.  
  
Ginny frowns, scooping up some eggs with her fork. “The case?” she asks simply.  
  
Harry nods, scrubbing his hands across his face, pressing his fingers momentarily into his eyes under his glasses. Her heart clenches watching it.  
  
“Yeah,” he mutters, sipping his coffee. “Robards Flooed, we’ve got another lead, a bloke in Ipswich reckons he might know something about the third kid.”  
  
Ginny watches Harry push his eggs around his plate. She nudges his hand gently with her knuckle and he obediently lifts his fork to take a bite. “You’ll catch him,” she reassures him quietly, wrapping her hands around her warm coffee and taking a sip, her elbows propped on the table. “You will.”  
  
“I hope so,” Harry whispers, and he sounds so drained. She reaches out to him, trailing her fingers along his forearm and he gives her a small, reassuring smile. “I’m fine,” he tells her, and takes another bite of eggs as if to prove it. He pauses. “Is your hair shorter?”  
  
Ginny quirks an eyebrow, mildly impressed. Her mother had only trimmed a few centimetres off. Though she shouldn’t be surprised. Harry was always doing that. Noticing things. Especially when it came to her.  
  
“A bit.” She smiles wryly. “Mum insisted.”  
  
Harry grins. He had experience of that himself. “Have you got practice today?”  
  
“Nah, day off, Hermione and I are going into London to get some of the Christmas shopping done. I’ll pop into the joke shop and say hello to Ron for you, yeah?”

“Thanks. Tell him from me he’s a git, too.”  
  
Ginny chuckles. “What for?”  
  
Harry shrugs, taking another sip of his coffee. “Dunno, he must have done _something_ worth being called a git since I saw him last….”  
  
It had only been three days, but she knows to Harry it must feel much longer. “True,” Ginny agrees sagely. “The way George tells it, it’s never much longer than five minutes.”  
  
Harry laughs, a real laugh, and Ginny wishes again that Ron could have stayed on longer with the Aurors. Her brother is happier at the shop, and he never would have left the department without knowing Harry would be okay without him, but she knows Harry misses him dearly, despite the fact they still managed to see each other all the time.  
  
“Reckon I’d better get a move on,” Harry sighs, rising from his chair and taking one last swig of coffee. His fingers graze lightly along her shoulder as he heads for the stairs to dress.  
  
Ginny nods absently, sipping her own coffee and staring at his barely touched breakfast with chagrin.

* * *

Hermione meets her at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes at half past ten and, after chatting to Ron for a bit, they make their way to their first stop at Madam Malkin’s to pick up some new dress robes for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement Christmas party the following evening. Ron, of course, no longer worked for the Ministry, but Hermione had managed to make quite a name for herself in the department already. There was already talk of her becoming Minister for Magic someday, though she didn’t seem to have much interest in the idea.  
  
Ginny is highly grateful that Harry hasn’t embraced the idea for himself either, she muses as she inspects the rows of coloured dress robes. There were rumours and hopes and right-out expectations that he would take up the job at some point, but neither she nor Harry fancy getting involved with professional politics…it would make him miserable, and her a fair bit, too….

A beautiful set of golden robes catches her eye. They glitter, just faintly, in a subtle pattern and give the magnificent impression that flowing air had somehow been woven into the fabric. It reminds her of the dress she had worn to Bill and Fleur’s wedding at fifteen, and the wink she had given Harry after Auntie Muriel’s comment about it being too low-cut. Grinning to herself, she pulls them quickly off the rack and goes to find Hermione, who had picked out some charming blue ones.  
  
They stop at Flourish and Blotts, Quality Quidditch Supplies, and Wiseacre’s before Hermione leads them out into Muggle London to a café she had always gone to with her parents during trips for school things.  
  
A woman with a baby in her arms and two small fair-haired children trailing behind her passes by Ginny and Hermione’s table just as they are tucking in to lunch. The little boy accidentally kicks one of Ginny’s bags as he goes and he stops, looking up at her uncertainly.

“That’s alright,” Ginny smiles kindly at him, pushing her shopping back under the table, and he smiles shyly back, hurrying off to join his mother.  
  
Ginny watches as the woman pays at the counter, the little boy peeking around his mother’s legs to stare at Ginny. She offers him a little wave, making a silly face, and he grins a bit before hiding his face again.  
  
A pleasant feeling in the bottom of her stomach, Ginny goes back to her lunch. She takes a bite of her salad with chicken, chewing thoughtfully as the boy and his sister begin a jumping game, the pleasant feeling growing.  
  
She swallows and looks up at Hermione. “Have you and Ron talked about having children?” she asks suddenly.  
  
Taken aback, Hermione sets her spoon down slowly, blinking. “No,” she says finally. “Not really.” She eyes Ginny appraisingly. “Have you and Harry?”  
  
“No,” Ginny says truthfully. “I mean, we’ve discussed it but we haven’t any plans….”  
  
Harry was as busy as ever at the Ministry, and Ginny was only a little over three years into her Quidditch career. It wasn’t exactly the perfect time to start building a family.  
  
“You don’t?”  
  
There is something almost hopeful in Hermione’s expression, and Ginny wonders if Hermione isn’t thinking the same thing she is.  
  
Ginny tilts her head slightly to one side. “We know we both want them, it’s just rotten timing right now, might be better to let everything settle a bit more, you know?”  
  
But Ginny had begun asking herself if waiting for everything to settle, for everything to fall perfectly in line, was really the right thing to do.  
  
She had seen how much having Teddy around had helped Harry after the war, they all had. The baby had been a joy for each and every one of them, a bright ray of light in the darkness of all they had lost, but Harry had _thrived_ with Teddy to look after, to focus on. Andromeda had brought Teddy to live with her, naturally, but it had still given Harry something innocent and new and beautiful to protect and nurture, a godson to whom he could help give a good life.  
  
And Harry still had Teddy, of course, and saw him as much as he could, which was often. But he didn’t get to come home to him, to scoop him up and kiss his cheek and tuck him into bed every night….  
  
“He needs one,” says Hermione quietly, voicing Ginny’s thoughts. The small smile on her face is almost sad.  
  
Ginny’s gaze drifts to the table, watching the beads of condensation on her water glass slide slowly towards the tablecloth. She knows Hermione, out of all people, is not trying to tell her that children must come before her career, but is merely being honest. Hermione would support both her and Harry, no matter what they chose to do. Ginny knows that. At that precise moment, it occurs to her for the first time exactly how enormous it would be for her husband: as much as Harry loved all the Weasleys, as much as they were, truly, his family, she can only imagine how much it would mean to him to have blood family, someone who shared his DNA, a born-Potter, a physical piece of himself to hold and to see and to touch. Something he had never had before….  
  
 _And the Dursleys didn’t count,_ Ginny thinks fiercely.  
  
A little someone who would have his nose or his hair or his eyes…god his _eyes_ …for a second, Ginny can see quite clearly in her mind’s eye a tiny, perfect infant with soft skin and tiny fingers and Harry’s green, green eyes and her heart melts with a sudden, fierce yearning from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.  
  
“I think I do, too,” Ginny admits, looking back up at Hermione, a small burst of nerves and joy exploding in her gut.  
  
Hermione’s face splits open in an ear-to-ear grin and she giggles like a school girl, rapping the table. “I knew it, I _knew_ it,” she says loud enough for the patrons at the next table over to shoot the both of them quelling looks.  
  
Ignoring them, Hermione stops the waitress and asks for two more glasses of wine.  
  
Ginny laughs. “I haven’t even talked to Harry yet, and you’re acting like I’ve already announced I’m pregnant.”  
  
“If you were pregnant, I wouldn’t be ordering you a second glass of wine,” Hermione reasons, the corner of her lips quirking up.  
  
“Fair play,” says Ginny. “Although if I splinch myself trying to Apparate home drunk, you’re explaining it to Harry.”

* * *

The Atrium of the Ministry is a sight to behold.

Everything is sparkling, from the thousands of glittering candles floating along the walls, to the wings of the live fairies flitting in and out of the garland pieces placed in the middle of each of dozens of round tables, to the freshly-shined fountain in the centre of the room. The swirling, golden patterns emblazoned on the peacock-blue ceiling are a perfect match to Ginny’s gleaming robes, and to the trim along Harry’s collar and sleeves that Ginny had convinced her mum to bewitch (and splendidly so) at the last minute.  
  
A dozen towering and lavishly decorated Christmas trees line the room, reminding Ginny fondly of the Great Hall of Hogwarts. Silver plates and goblets had been placed at each table setting, and there is a pleasant buzz of chatter in the air as everyone arrives and begins to mingle.  
  
When she was a little younger, Ginny would have despised an affair like this, getting dressed up and having to talk to people she barely knew. But the food was usually good, and she had accepted that these gatherings would likely always be a part of her life and, as such, she might as well enjoy them.

In any case, she was a sucker for any sort of Christmas decoration.  
  
Harry, on the other hand, would probably never get used to them.  
  
She glances over at him. He is anxiously adjusting his collar with the hand she isn’t holding, his expression neutral, she knows, so as not to announce to all the world that he would rather be anywhere else.  
  
She squeezes his hand, and he flashes her a reassuring smile and a wink, squeezing her hand in return.  
  
Her dad spots them through the crowd just then and makes his way over.  
  
“You two look nice,” he says warmly once he’s reached them.  
  
“So do you,” Ginny grins, gently disengaging herself from Harry to hug her father. And he did. Ginny knows her parents don’t think of it the same way, but she is endlessly glad that they have more money to spend on themselves now all their children had left home. Her mum had proudly shown her the new robes her father was currently wearing when she had gone over to get help with Harry’s ones, and she can’t help but think how much they truly deserve it.  
  
Her dad lets go of her and shakes Harry’s hand, pulling him in for a brief one-armed hug. He thumps Harry on the back and releases him, saying, “It’s good to see you.”  
  
“You too,” Harry says, enormous fondness evident in his face.  
  
“We’ve missed you at home,” says Arthur sincerely. “Robards keeping you busy?”  
  
“A fair bit,” Harry laughs lightly, and Arthur grins, but Ginny sees her dad’s eyes give Harry the familiar once-over, taking in his appearance.  
  
“Well, don’t overdo it,” Arthur tells him, his tone easy. “Molly’s on the verge of owling Kingsley to stop holding you hostage. You two coming for Christmas Eve?”  
  
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Harry reassures him.  
  
Satisfied, Arthur nods and claps Harry on the shoulder, moving away into the crowd.  
  
As they skirt around groups of people to find a seat, Ginny weaves her arm around Harry’s. “You know,” she says quietly, “Mum and Dad don’t say that stuff to make you feel guilty. They really mean it when they say they’ve missed you….”  
  
“I know,” Harry replies softly, and she believes he really does, by now. “I just hate disappointing them.”  
  
“You don’t disappoint them,” she insists. “They only want you to be okay. _I_ only want you to be okay.”  
  
“I am,” says Harry. He spots the look on her face. “Well, enough, at least. I’ve got you, haven’t I?”  
  
Just then, a couple of the new Auror recruits appear, staring a little eagerly at Harry, and Ginny leans up to whisper in his ear. “Always,” she says and leaves them to it as a rather tall recruit with a long nose and sandy hair hurries to shake Harry’s hand, knowing he would be alright for now.  
  
The subtle transformation from her Harry to ‘Auror Potter’ was always a little amazing to watch, though not too many people would be able to tell the difference. She glances back, knowing she will see it, and there it is, that slightly heightened air of confidence and purpose that squared out his shoulders and radiated an unmistakable sense that he was not to be fooled with.  
  
There is a damn good reason she asks him to put on his Auror robes at home sometimes.  
  
Feeling a little too warm all of a sudden, Ginny resumes her search for a table (and a glass of water), scanning the room for anybody she might know. She spots Hermione, in her new blue robes, waving her over to where she and Ron, dressed in a set of smart grey robes, were already seated and gratefully crosses over to them.  
  
“Have you – ?” Hermione starts knowingly as soon as Ginny drops into the seat beside her.  
  
“No,” Ginny says at once. “And I’m not talking about that here, can you imagine the papers? Can you imagine _Mum_ reading the papers?”  
  
“Can Hermione imagine what in the papers?” Ron asks with interest, swallowing a mouthful of his spiced mead.  
  
“Never you mind,” Ginny tells him firmly, reaching up to tame a strand of hair coming loose from her twist.  
  
Ron looks between the two of them expectantly, but when neither answer he puts up his hands as if to say it didn’t matter whatsoever to him what secrets they were keeping and sets his glass down on the table, rising to his feet. “I’m going to find Harry….”  
  
Hermione stares after him with affection, shaking her head and nudging Ginny conspiratorially in the ribs.  
  
Ginny chuckles and pours herself a glass of ice water from the pitcher in the centre of the table, drinking it down until her throat freezes painfully.  
  
Ten minutes later the boys are back, Ron evidently having successfully rescued Harry from an endless line of questioning about what it was really like to go out into the field.  
  
“Your seat, Your Chosen Eminence,” Ron announces, gesturing Harry into the chair next to Ginny’s.  
  
“Oh stuff it,” Harry grunts as Ron chortles and settles again next to Hermione. “You look a bit flushed,” he notes quietly, giving Ginny a once-over.  
  
“Yes, well,” Ginny says, crossing her legs delicately. She leans over and he automatically lowers his ear to her mouth. She speaks so that only he can hear. “Have I told you I haven’t got any knickers on?”  
  
Ginny leans away again, smoothing her robes casually over her thighs as though she hadn’t just whispered something indecent to her husband in the middle of a room full of professional people in nice clothes.  
  
Faint colour rises up around the collar of Harry’s robes and he bites his lips together as he looks round at her, his eyes dancing, half with amusement and half with a sudden-kindled desire. Before he has a chance to reply, however, Shafiq, the Head of the department clanks his glass at the front of the room for everyone’s attention and Ginny taps Harry on the arm, directing his concentration forward as though he had been causing the distraction in the first place.  
  
The lights dim in preparation for the Head’s short welcome speech and the inevitable dinner and dancing to follow, and Harry takes the opportunity, under cover of the noise of all the guests settling into their seats and of Hermione’s laughter at a quiet joke Ron had just made, to lean back slightly and murmur into Ginny’s ear, “Don’t think you’ve got away with it, Weasley.”  
  
She pretends to ignore him as he straightens in his chair again, his features schooled back into cool indifference, but her insides seem to melt all the way down her belly and she crosses her legs a bit more tightly.  
  
Abruptly, she is entirely convinced that this party was extremely unnecessary and wonders when the hell it is going to be over.

* * *

After dinner, she and Harry share precisely one dance, in which they stand close enough that she can feel the beat of his heart reverberating against her own chest, before she excuses herself to get a glass of champagne, wishing, not for the first time, that Harry’s (and now, increasingly, her own) fame did not prevent from sneaking off to the loo for a quick shag like any normal, decent couple.  
  
As it was, their combined absence would be noted immediately and they would never hear the end of it.  
  
Unfortunate, that.  
  
Not deigning to acknowledge Harry’s knowing smile as she leaves the dance floor, Ginny heads straight for the long table where they were keeping the alcohol. She finishes off her first glass of champagne quickly before asking the server for another and moving away toward one of the empty high tables situated at the edges of the dance floor where people were stood chatting and enjoying their drinks.  
  
Sarah Ogden, one of the reserve Beaters for the Harpies whose fiancé worked for the Wizengamot Administration Services, spots her and comes over and they talk for a bit, speculating about the Kestrals’ chances against Puddlemere United. A pleasant buzz starting in her veins, Ginny sips her drink and automatically scans the crowd to see where Harry’s got to.  
  
Hermione has already found him, politely shooing away the group of people who had managed to latch onto him in the space of a two minutes, and they’ve made their way to another of the high tables. Harry catches her eye and winks nearly imperceptibly, but Ron appears at that moment, completing their trio, and Ginny decides to leave them to it for a bit.  
  
They so rarely got a chance to talk, just the three of them, these days.  
  
Ginny watches them, smiling softly as she observes the tension ease slowly out of Harry’s shoulders. Even from this distance, she is good at recognising it.  
  
She and Harry had earned their places at each other’s sides, there was no arguing that. They were…well, Ginny thinks the phrase ‘soul mates’ sounds a little too prosaic for her taste, like they are template characters in a romance novel. The concept was there, though, their ability to communicate without talking, to know what the other was thinking and feeling. Their near-flawless compatibility when it came to most things.  
  
But Harry had something with Ron and Hermione that almost defied explanation – it wasn’t that it was _better_ or _more,_ she supposed, it was just…different. Deep and unbreakable. His relationship with them was just as fundamental a part of him as his relationship with her was. She could admit that as a kid it had made her annoyed (and perhaps even jealous) a time or two, to see such a rare, special thing she could never be a part of. But she couldn’t be more grateful for it now, knowing the strength all three of them drew from each other….

Sarah’s fiancé finds her after a while and pulls her away for a dance, leaving Ginny alone again.  
  
“Has your no-good husband abandoned you, then?” says a deep voice from beside her.  
  
Ginny looks round to see Kingsley Shacklebolt standing there, a glass of firewhisky in his hand, smiling good-naturedly.  
  
“Hello, Minister,” she grins. “No. I figured I’d let him have some time to himself. I’m afraid my presence can be rather overwhelming at times….” She sighs dramatically as though this was a great and blessed burden to bear.  
  
Kingsley chuckles. “No doubt. How very kind of you.”  
  
Ginny grins again and looks out at the weaving, shimmering crowd of dancing wizards and witches. Her eyes wander unavoidably to Harry again. She watches as he says something to Hermione and the three of them laugh.  
  
Kingsley follows her gaze.  
  
“How’s he doing?” he asks softly, swirling his whisky absently.  
  
Ginny almost says ‘alright,’ because he is, at this particular moment. But that was a surface response, a platitude, and she knows that Kingsley is someone who really, truly cares.  
  
Kingsley had always been a steady, calming presence, something that had been sorely needed during the war, and after, and it was surely part of the reason people had wanted him for Minister in the first place. When Harry had joined the Aurors nearly straight out of the Battle of Hogwarts, broken and wounded and doggedly determined, Kingsley had looked after him. He had shielded him as much as possible from the media, and intervened when Harry tried to run himself far too ragged, and had quietly let her mum and dad know to keep a close eye on him after some of the particularly brutal days spent hunting down the remaining Death Eaters.  
  
Kingsley had a soft spot for Harry that made Ginny feel pleased in a way she couldn’t quite describe.  
  
Ginny simply looks at him, pressing her lips together and wincing slightly in answer to his question.  
  
Kingsley nods knowingly, his intelligent eyes a bit sorrowful.  
  
“They found a fourth child a couple of days ago. It was even worse than the first ones….”  
  
Ginny swallows painfully.  
  
“Did he tell you?”  
  
She shakes her head slowly. “I had guessed it was something like that. He was in pieces when he got home.”  
  
A rueful expression crosses Kingsley’s dark features. “I got a chance to read the reports….” But he stops himself, seeming to think better of voicing the details aloud. “Anyway, I have faith it’ll end soon. They’re getting closer every day.”  
  
The confidence in his voice reassures her more than she can say, and she hopes to the heavens that he is right.  
  
They stand in silence for a moment or two, and then Kingsley says quietly. “And how are you?”  
  
She thinks about it before answering. “Alright,” Ginny says, and she means it.  
  
Sometimes ‘alright’ felt very far away, but tonight, with the lights and the laughter and the lines in Harry’s face a bit less evident as he jokes with his best friends, she feels warm and more than a little hopeful that the coming year would bring better, happier things for them all.

* * *

One of those happy things occurs not an hour and a half later, when Harry and Ginny more or less stagger through their front door, flushed with the champagne they had drunk and the looks of promise they had been giving each other all evening, and Harry wastes no time in practically tossing her on the sofa, rucking up her glittering, golden robes, and burying his head enthusiastically between her thighs.  
  
After he finishes her off and she lies panting and breathless, she tries to move to return the favour, but he shakes his head with a cheeky little grin.  
  
“Told you, you hadn’t got away with it, Mrs. Potter.”  
  
And he hitches her thighs straight over his shoulders, still clothed in his own dress robes, and goes to work once more.  
  
She almost wants to demand he shag her properly, to tell him to fill up her womb with their growing child, but it isn’t exactly the time to be having that particular discussion, and anyway there is no way she can bear to tell him to stop doing what he is doing now with his tongue. God, he was so _good_ at this….  
  
She runs her fingers through his wild hair and leans back into the cushions of their sofa, fully giving into it, his name falling from her lips in a soft, contented sigh.

* * *

The days seem to fly faster the closer they get to Christmas.  
  
The Harpies play their match against the Montrose Magpies and, for only the second time in the League’s history, win. Gwenog is nearly reduced to tears, which in and of itself was a sort of miracle. Ginny scores no less than one hundred and sixty of the Harpies’ two hundred points before the Snitch is caught, and Harry, despite his heavy workload, is there to see it all, cheering her on as he had done at every single one of her matches since she had first been recruited to the team.  
  
Ginny rides the magnificent high of their win the entire week until Christmas Eve, singing loudly to herself as she decorates the house and bakes biscuits shaped like gingerbread men and Father Christmas, which Harry valiantly tries and fails to eat with a straight face and which leads to an only mildly cutthroat impromptu baking competition at one in the morning.  
  
Harry comes home past eight o’ clock in the evening exactly twice, which is an improvement on the past six weeks, and Ginny has only one attack of the shakes that is so tame it lasts a mere fifteen minutes, and by the time it comes for the extended Weasley family to converge on the Burrow for the holiday festivities she is in higher spirits than she has been in a long while.

* * *

Victoire is wrapped, giggling and squealing, around Ginny’s knees the moment she steps foot into her parents’ house, sans Harry, who is still at the Ministry. The kitchen smells of the wondrous scents of roast ham, potatoes, and mince pies baking in the oven. Ginny allows herself a split second to let the nostalgia roll over her before she bends down, plucking her niece from around her legs and hoisting her, still squealing, into her arms.  
  
“What have we got here?” Ginny asks in mock fascination, tickling Victoire’s sides and making her giggle even more. “What’s the matter?”  
  
“Teddy!” Victoire shrieks in delight, pointing her tiny finger in the direction of the sitting room, where the little boy can be seen poking his head around the corner. The head of mousy brown hair disappears back around the doorframe and a second later Teddy springs into the room, holding his hands up like claws and roaring in his closest impression of a frightening monster. Victoire clutches Ginny tightly around the neck, deafening her with another happy shriek.  
  
“Hello, dear,” Ginny’s mum greets her warmly, coming over from the cooker to kiss her cheek and relieve her of Victoire.  
  
“Hi, Mum,” says Ginny, hugging her mother tightly as she transfers the little girl into her arms. “How’s it coming?”  
  
“HIYA!” Teddy yells excitedly, skipping towards Ginny, who gathers him up for a hug, kissing the top of his head before setting his feet back on the ground.  
  
“Teddy,” Andromeda chides gently from her seat at the kitchen table. “A little quieter, please. Hello, Ginny.”  
  
“Hiya. Hiya, hiya, hiya,” Teddy whispers as Molly sets Victoire onto the floor, and the two of them run off into the sitting room, little voices inevitably rising all over again.  
  
Molly shakes her head indulgently and turns to Ginny. “We’re almost there, another hour, I expect, and we’ll be ready to eat. Where’s Harry?”  
  
“Work,” Ginny tells her, grimacing on his behalf.  
  
“Poor boy,” says her mum anxiously, turning to take the pies out. “You would think they’d give him a bit of a rest during Christmas, your father came home two hours ago.”  
  
“Somebody called for me?” Arthur says cheerfully as he enters the kitchen with George, who winks at Ginny and immediately tries to steal one of their mother’s freshly-made pies.  
  
 _“Not_ until dinner!” cries Molly, slapping his hand away.  
  
“Not even for your poor, sweet, single-eared son?” George asks her, putting a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I’ve got a bloody war injury, you know….”  
  
“So’ve I,” calls Bill’s voice from the sitting room. “But you don’t see me trying to nick anything, do you?”  
  
Ginny hears Ron laugh in the other room and rolls her eyes, trying to convince herself she hasn’t missed this at all.  
  
An hour later, Harry still hasn’t arrived, and her mum is fretting more than ever, wondering if they ought not to hold supper for him. They all decide they had better go ahead, however, as the little ones had started to get a bit fussy.  
  
Ginny helps Angelina set the places at the long table as her dad helps her mum with all the dishes of food. The children are wrangled into the kitchen, and everyone is just settling into their seats as the front door opens with a gust of icy air and Harry steps inside, his nose and cheeks red with cold.  
  
A loud chorus of celebratory greetings go up around the table, Teddy shouting “Harry!” in utter happiness, and Molly skirts around the edge of the room to tug him into her arms, kissing his cheek fondly as she releases him. _“There_ you are, at last, I was beginning to think they would never let you come back to us!”  
  
“Sorry,” Harry tells her sincerely, but despite his lateness and the cold and the exhaustion still evident in his face, he looks more alive than Ginny has seen him in weeks, and hope burgeons in her chest. “I’m here now.”  
  
Shrugging his coat off, he rounds the table, clapping Ron on the shoulder and kissing Teddy and Victoire as he goes, and sinks into the empty chair next to Ginny’s.  
  
“Hi,” he says, kissing her soundly despite being surrounded by their entire family.  
  
“Ugh,” George mutters dramatically from Harry’s other side as everyone begins eating, but Harry simply kicks his chair and grins as George snatches a roll off of Harry’s plate in retaliation.  
  
“You caught him, didn’t you?” asks Ginny quietly, looking into his face. “It’s over.”  
  
“It’s over,” he confirms, and there is such pride and relief in his eyes that it makes her heart tighten almost painfully.  
  
Ginny reaches for his hand under the table, squeezing it gently and running her thumb over his knuckles. “Thank God….” she says, feeling something unknot a bit in her chest.  
  
“You lot catch that bastard, then?” Ron calls from across the table.  
  
“What’s a bastard?” asks Teddy happily, mashing his potatoes with his fork.  
  
Hermione swats Ron on the arm and Andromeda sighs, instructing Teddy very firmly not to repeat that word.  
  
“You can talk about that later,” Molly tells Ron staunchly, looking pointedly in Teddy and Victoire’s directions, though she looks more than a little relieved herself at Harry’s news.

Ron holds up his hands in surrender.  
  
Ginny shakes her head, releasing Harry’s hand so he can eat properly, and by the time everyone is finished she is extremely satisfied to see that every bite on Harry’s plate is gone.

* * *

After dinner is done and the dishes cleaned, everyone moves to the sitting room that Fleur and Ginny had helped her mother to decorate over the last few weeks (Fleur had seemed highly uncertain about the paper chains Ginny had strung about the ceiling, but she is pleased to note that they are still hanging right where she’d left them).  
  
Andromeda bids her good-byes, kissing Teddy and Harry each and promising to be back in the morning.  
  
Ginny’s mum turns on the wireless as Bill pours everyone a nightcap and the children play a non-stop game of chase around the room (George and Harry both steadfastly maintaining that they had not, in fact, slipped the two of them any sweets). Before long however, Fleur is scooping up a slowing Victoire, the toddler’s legs bumping Fleur’s slightly protruding stomach as she settles her in her arms. Without a playmate, Teddy makes his way automatically onto Harry’s lap, his hair deepening slowly to black as he snuggles contentedly into his godfather’s arms.  
  
Sometimes Ginny wonders if Harry knows exactly how tender his expression turns when he is holding his godson.  
  
“I’d better take him up,” says Harry softly, brushing his fingers against Ginny’s knee as he stands.  
  
“But I’m not…” Teddy yawns, “tired….”  
  
“I know, mate,” Harry tells him soothingly, adjusting the boy into a more comfortable position against his shoulder as he makes his way up the stairs to the room he and Ginny would be sharing that night.  
  
Ginny draws her legs up underneath her as she twirls the drink in her glass, listening vaguely to the conversation going on between her dad, Bill, and Hermione about the new bill to change werewolf regulation that was slated to be introduced in the new year.  
  
She looks around at her family. Charlie is unfortunately missing, as he was abroad again, and Percy and Audrey weren’t due until the morning. Then there was Fred, of course, who would be forever missing from their midst….  
  
Unexpected tears well up behind her eyes, and she bites down hard on her lip, preferring to leave sad thoughts for another time.  
  
They were not complete tonight, perhaps, but they were here. They were here, and they were healing, and there was a fire and drinks and music to be enjoyed with each other. She remembers what it had felt like coming back to the Burrow after her first year at school, after the chamber…that feeling of being safe and protected once more, where nothing could hurt her. She feels that again now, surrounded by her family, with the broody, stubborn, brilliant man she loves just upstairs putting the child he had been given to care for to bed, and she doesn’t quite know whether it is the whisky or her sentimental thoughts, but she feels warm and content, the feeling spreading to the tips of her fingers.  
  
Harry returns, sneaking quietly down the stairs and into the sitting room, taking up his seat again, and Ginny shifts to sit on his lap, the longing to have him as close as possible taking over. He accepts her easily, curling an arm around her back, and it is a testament to how far Harry has come that he is comfortable being so casually affectionate in a roomful of people.  
  
Her eyes roam over his face, and she touches his cheek gently. “I’m so proud of you,” Ginny says, just loud enough for him to hear over the music and the chatter.  
  
“For what?” says Harry quizzically, tilting his head to the side as he lays his hand over hers on his cheek, his finger brushing over her wedding ring.  
  
 _For so many things._ “Well, for stopping a killer today for a start.”  
  
“The least I could do,” Harry jokes, but she knows he had taken her seriously.  
  
“I want to hear about it, if you want to tell me,” she says quietly.  
  
“Mm, when we get home…” says Harry. Her thumb moves across his cheek, and his eyes slip close for just a moment.  
  
“Alright.”  
  
He gives her a small smile and she shifts her hand around to the back of his neck, playing with the short hair there, that content feeling spreading more heavily through her veins.  
  
He repositions his arm, bringing her even closer to him. His eyes moves over the room, and that tender look appears in them again. Ginny follows his gaze, seeing Victoire asleep in the crook of Bill’s arm, her beautiful face tucked against her father’s chest.  
  
With the lights from the Christmas tree sparkling joyfully down on them, and their family’s laughter echoing around them, Ginny turns back to Harry and leans down to whisper in his ear, “Let’s have a baby, yeah?”  
  
Harry moves his head back slightly to look at her, his eyes shining with surprise and something else. He opens his mouth, and then closes it again. His eyebrows knit together in concern. “What about Quidditch? How soon would you be able to get back to training?”  
  
And he really means it, the selfless idiot.  
  
“Well…” she starts delicately. “I wouldn’t go back to training.”  
  
Harry stares at her blankly. “What d’you mean?”  
  
Ginny shifts on his lap. “Look, she hasn’t announced it yet, but Gwenog’s retiring at the end of this season. The team won’t be the same without her, they’ll have to restructure everything, it’ll be the perfect time for me to step away. Finding another Chaser won’t be a problem – ”  
  
“You’re not doing that for me,” Harry says firmly, and the way he says it reveals to her just how much he truly wants to take this next step. How long he has likely been thinking about it.  
  
“I want to do it for _us,_ Harry.”  
  
“You’re only a couple of years into your career,” he protests, frowning. “I should be the one to quit, I can’t ask you to – ”  
  
“Well, it’s lucky you’re not asking me, then,” she tells him quietly. She brushes the back of his neck with her fingers as he looks at her. “You were born to do this job, we both know you’d go mental without it….”  
  
Harry swallows, but doesn’t say anything. He looks back across the room, his eyes focusing on something distant, thinking.  
  
“It wouldn’t be fair….”  
  
Ginny sighs, pressing her lips to his temple. “We've got plenty of time to argue about that, though I do warn you, I will win – ” Harry snorts quietly “ – but don’t you think it’s time? It feels…I dunno, right…doesn’t it?”  
  
Harry is silent another moment, and she can tell there is a war going on in his head.  
  
“Listen,” she tells him gently, “just think about it, alright?”  
  
Harry nods slightly, biting his lip. “Yeah,” he says, and clears his throat a bit. “Yeah.”  
  
Ginny threads her fingers through the hair behind his ear and he automatically tilts his head up to meet her lips.  
  
“You know, I think I’m rather glad I married you,” says Ginny as they break apart, settling further into his lap.  
  
“You have no idea,” says Harry softly, tightening his arms around her, and they sit together in silence for a long while, watching the flames in the hearth crackling merrily away.

* * *

Christmas morning, predictably, is quite a chaotic affair.  
  
As Ginny and her brothers were no longer children and as such prone to moving a bit more slowly in the mornings, the tradition of leaving presents at the foot of their beds had been moved to beneath the tree in the sitting room so as to entice the whole family to gather together a bit sooner than they might have done.  
  
They sit around with mugs of tea and coffee, all still in their pyjamas, exchanging gifts and watching Teddy tear through his at hyper-speed.  
  
The night before, the boy had climbed out of his little cot to climb into bed between Harry and Ginny after hearing them come in, and they had shared a silent, meaningful look over the top of his head before happily dozing to sleep in their little jumble of three.  
  
Ginny’s is his lap of choice for the morning celebrations, and he keeps scurrying away to retrieve more of his presents from underneath the tree before plopping back down on her crossed ankles. And even though he’s almost spilt her tea twice, she finds she doesn’t mind at all.  
  
Andromeda turns up at nine o’ clock for breakfast, Percy and Audrey arriving shortly after, and the rest of the day is spent helping to prepare dinner and enjoying the gifts they had got (and in her, Harry, Ron, Angelina, George, and Bill’s case participating in a rather ferocious snowball fight – she reckons Percy participated, too, but only slightly as he managed to catch one in the face by accident as he was passing). Her mother, of course, pulled out all the stops for Christmas dinner: turkey, sprouts, potatoes, cranberry sauce, pigs in blankets, hot gravy, stuffing, red cabbage, topped off with Christmas cake and a fresh batch of mince pies.  
  
Once or twice throughout the day, Ginny catches Harry looking a bit unsettled, with that expression on his face that tells her he is wandering off somewhere inside his head, and by the time Percy and Audrey take their leave, Ginny realises that Harry is nowhere to be found.  
  
Thinking on it, she is not sure he had come back inside at all after bidding good-bye to Teddy and Andromeda.  
  
Throwing on her coat and shoes, Ginny slips out the front door into the garden. She finds Harry leaning against the fence, twirling his wand slowly in his hands and looking out over the frozen ground into the darkness. With a touch of exasperation, she sees he is only wearing a jumper to protect him from the cold.  
  
She comes up next to him, touching his arm, and he startles a bit. “What are you doing out here? It’s freezing.”  
  
Harry shrugs, his gaze drifting away again. He places his wand back in his pocket and rubs his palms slowly together. “Just thinking….”  
  
“What about, Mr. Potter?” She leans against the fence, too, bracing her elbows against it, mirroring him.  
  
He is quiet for a while, sniffing slightly in the cold. She wants to fetch him a jacket, but senses she shouldn’t leave.  
  
“I think a lot about my parents, at Christmas…” he says finally, very quietly.  
  
She suspects he isn’t done, but he does not go on, so she says softly, “That’s only natural.”  
  
Ginny remembers him telling her about the Christmas he and Hermione had spent in Godric’s Hollow, in the cemetery there, and about the wreath they had placed on James and Lily’s grave.  
  
“But…” he continues, and it sounds as though he is bracing himself for something difficult. “I think even more about the Dursleys,” he says, and her heart breaks. “How awful Christmases with them were…I didn’t even imagine they could be fun, not until Hogwarts, and your family….”  
  
 _“Your_ family,” she corrects him, sliding an arm through his.  
  
“Yeah.” His lips quirk up in a small smile, and it’s taken him years, but she knows he finally believes that. “I just…what if I….” He swallows, hard. “What if I have more of them in me than I thought?”  
  
She knows how much it had cost him to say that. He still wasn’t looking at her.  
  
“You could never treat a child that way, Harry,” she insists, her suspicions forming about what is actually bothering him. “You’re great with Teddy. You’re brilliant, as a matter of fact. What makes you think this will be any different?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Harry admits, and it sounds as though something is stuck in his throat. “Sometimes, I think I – ”  
  
But he breaks off suddenly.  
  
“What, Harry?” asks Ginny, trying to keep very still. She can sense that any movement on her part will spook him into silence.  
  
“Sometimes,” he tries again after a long moment, his voice very low, “I think the things they said to me, what they did…I think maybe it….” He sighs, and he sounds nothing short of defeated. “Maybe it messed me up more than I thought it did.” He looks down at the ground finally, his hands clenched together, as if he is ashamed to even have said it out loud.  
  
Ginny swallows, and she feels the pressure building behind her eyes, in her throat. A couple of tears well up and spill over, burning hot then instantly cold on her face.  
  
“It wasn’t your fault.”  
  
Harry looks at her. He nods, very slowly. “I guess I know that.” He glances away again. “It just doesn’t feel like it sometimes.”  
  
It is safe at last, she thinks, to move, and she lays her head on his shoulder, trying to convey through every point where her body touches his that he is loved, and cared for, and wanted.  
  
There is silence again, the longest yet, and then Harry speaks, so quietly she almost misses it.  
  
“Okay,” he says.  
  
She lifts her head to look at him, confused.  
  
“Okay, what?” she asks carefully. “Okay like…you want to have a baby?”  
  
“No,” he says, but he looks at her quickly. “I mean, yes, of course I want to have a baby, it’s just….” He trails off, running a hand through his hair in distress.  
  
Ginny waits patiently.  
  
“I think it might be best if I…y’know, tried talking to someone, before all that happens,” he admits with difficulty. “Just to sort some stuff out. I’m a bit fucked in the head, in case you hadn’t noticed….” He smiles weakly, but his eyes hold too much grief to carry the joke.  
  
She remains frozen where she stands, hardly daring to hope that he is agreeing to what it sounds like he is agreeing to. She stares at him; he had never said anything on the few occasions she had suggested he might also want to try seeing someone, not actually. He had always explained in a roundabout way why it wasn’t a good idea, always shook his head or took her hand or in some other way made it gently clear that he did not want to talk about it. And now, finally, his response.  
  
 _Okay._  
  
“I think,” she says, her throat feeling tighter than ever, “that’s probably a good idea.”  
  
And she leans into his chest, wrapping her arms around him as the tears let go, tears of both joy and of heartache, and he hugs her back, his surely-frozen fingers gripping the back of her coat.  
  
“I love you,” she whispers fiercely in his ear.  
  
He pulls back, taking her face in his cold hands and swiping a thumb gently across her cheekbone. Never minding the tears, he leans down to kiss her, like she is the only perfect thing in the world, until her head spins, and her tears are dried, and she thinks that maybe they really are the only two people left on earth.  
  
“I love you, too,” says Harry as they break apart.  
  
Smiling a bit, his eyes looking glassy and vulnerable but just a little bit freer, he slips his hand into hers and they walk back toward the warmth of the Burrow, and to their family waiting inside.  
  
And after the day is done, after the leftover turkey has been divided and wrapped and pressed into protesting hands, after presents have been gathered up, and all the children kissed good-bye, Harry and Ginny make their way back to their own quiet little home.  
  
They spend the rest of the evening in their bed together, snow falling gently outside the window, and there is no biting, this time, no scratching. No wrecking panic or crushing fear or burning guilt. There is only the two of them, only quiet sighs and soft “I love you”s and the whispered hope of healing. Only the promise of new adventures, and of far brighter days ahead.  
  
And, perhaps, Ginny thinks with a glow of happiness, one more gift to buy next Christmas.


End file.
